


Hollow Man

by nsyncgrrl



Category: Music RPF, NSYNC, Pop Music RPF, Popslash
Genre: 1990s, 2000s, Angst, Boyband, Celebrities, Jealousy, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nsyncgrrl/pseuds/nsyncgrrl
Summary: I love this story, which might be egotistical but tough shit. I wrote it, you know? Justin's insecure about himself, his career, and his relationship with Lance, who is a hard man to love.NOTE: The italicized lines are from a poem called "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot.
Relationships: Lance Bass/Justin Timberlake
Kudos: 1





	Hollow Man

_ This is the way the world ends ... _

It's late, too late. I hate when he does this to me, takes off after a show to hang out at the clubs with Joey and Chris. Like I don't matter. Like I don't lie here in his hotel room, in the bed we share at night, and clutch the sheets around me because I want him so bad.

Last time he did this to me, I stayed up until four in the morning waiting for him to return, and the minute he walked through the door, I jumped all over him. "Where have you been?" I wanted to know. "Do you know what time it is?"

He glared at me with those celadon eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hard and uncompromising. "What the fuck's your problem, Justin?" he asked, and I bit my lip like I always do when I get upset. I know he hates it, but I couldn't stop myself. Watching me, he sighed, pissed to all hell. "Don't play this stupid game with me, not tonight. I'm not in the mood."

"What game is that?" I asked, though I knew perfectly well what he meant.

He tossed his jacket on the sofa and headed for the bathroom. I followed. "I'm not going to listen to this," he growled, leaning over the sink. He twisted the knob so hard I thought it would snap off in his hand. "This jealous boyfriend act of yours needs to stop, right now." When I didn't say anything, he looked at me in the mirror, the anger in his eyes simmering in the reflection. "You think I'm fucking around on you? Is that what this is all about?"

I didn't say anything, because I know he wouldn't do that. But sometimes it all gets to me and I lie awake at night and wonder how I could make it without the group, without Lance. And that's when the doubts start to creep in, whispering into my mind, invading my heart. _What if this all disappears tomorrow?_ I think. _The fame, the fans, the group?_ That's when I need him the most, and I reach out to find him sleeping beside me, so warm, so close, so alive. I snuggle into his arms and he kisses the back of my neck. He whispers my name and tells me everything will be alright, and in those moments I believe him.

But he's not here, is he? It's late and dark, and some little voice inside tells me I'm not Justin Timberlake, golden boy of 'N Sync, voted Male Hottie of the Year by the fans. Here in the dark I'm only nineteen years old. I'm just a little boy struggling to grow into who the world wants him to be, and I'm scared. I want him here with me, right now. I don't want to share him with Joey or the group or the rest of the world. I don't want him out at the club, drinking. I hate when he drinks. He forgets who he is, who _I_ am, and he becomes someone else. Someone petty, someone mean. Someone who forgets that he loves me. And I have to tell myself that in the morning, he'll remember. I cry myself to sleep and pray that he remembers.

_ This is the way the world ends ... _

The door opens and laughter spills into the room. I hear it through my restless sleep and glance at the clock. After three in the morning. I close my eyes as he tells them to keep it down, I'm trying to sleep, and then the door latches as he comes inside. He stumbles to the bed. Even though I left the bedside lamp on for him, he still hits his knee against the end table. "Fuck," he mutters, his words slurred but low. He doesn't know I'm awake. With my back towards him, he doesn't see the frown on my face, the crease in my brow. I don't want him to see that. I don't want to make him mad again.

He sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. I almost turn at the sound, but I tell myself I'm asleep. I'm supposed to be asleep. His shoes fall to the floor one at a time as he pulls them off, and the bed moves as he shrugs off his shirt. Then he stands and slips out of his pants, the buckle jingling as it hits the floor. He cuts off the light and slides beneath the covers. I try not to stiffen when he curls up against me. "Justin," he breathes into my ear, his teeth nibbling just above my earring. His hands trail down the flat of my stomach, reaching for my dick. I tell myself I'm not in the mood. I tell myself I'm angry that he's so late, that I'm not going to put out for him, not tonight.

But my body has different plans, and beneath his familiar touch I grow hard. His tongue licks along my neck, the coppery stench of alcohol thick on his breath. Another smell tingles my nose, something sharp and unfamiliar, but I know what it is. I heard Joey tell him earlier that he had some pot. I don't want to believe that he stayed out all night smoking that shit and getting drunk, so I ignore his touch, his scent. I pretend I'm still asleep.

His kisses become demanding, insistent. "Justin," he whispers again, a little louder this time. "Wake up and let me fuck you."

Tears prick my eyes. "No," I reply, but I don't move out of his arms. I've waited for him for too long. I can't pull away now.

"What did you say?" he murmurs into my neck, his lips hot. Where his tongue touches me, my skin burns. His hand cups my balls and squeezes gently. It hurts, but there's a part of me that likes the pain. It makes this real, makes me believe he's finally here with me.

"I said no," I whisper, but I don't sound very convincing, even to myself.

He chuckles against my throat. He's leaning over me, turning me onto my back, straddling me. I tell him no again but his lips cover mine, stifling my protests. I'm weak against him, I always have been, and when I can't push him off, I stop struggling. My hands rest on his chest, keeping us apart. His own hands entwine in my curls, holding my head back against the pillows as he enters me. He kisses away the tears that trace down my cheeks.

_ This is the way the world ends ... _

When he comes, he always says he loves me. I don't know how true that is but I believe him. I have to believe him. And tonight is no different. He holds me in his strong arms and nuzzles my neck, his fingers brushing the dampness from my cheeks. "I love you," he whispers. "You know that."

"I know," I reply. I love him, too. Desperately. I love the way he looks at me when we dance. I love the way he smiles in the morning, slowly at first, when I'm waking up. I love the way he holds me and loves me and promises never to let me go.

But I don't love this stranger in bed with me, who smells of booze and pot and whose rough hands and hard body frighten me. I pout as he kisses me carelessly, sleepy now that he's gotten his piece of my ass for the night. "Stop it," he says. He means the pouting. I do it often enough that he knows the way it feels to kiss the pout away. I don't know what to say so I say nothing at all. The tears swell again, choking my throat. "Justin, stop it now. What the fuck do you have to be upset about?"

"I don't like you like this," I whisper, and regret it instantly.

"Like what?" he wants to know. He shifts off of me, and suddenly I'm cold and alone and terrified.

I shrug helplessly. "Nothing," I say. I want him to touch me again. Anything for those hands, that body ... "Lance, please. Like nothing. Please."

It's too late. He rolls over on his side of the bed, muttering darkly. "Fuck this shit," he growls into his pillow. He's turned away from me, and I know from experience that nothing I can say or do will get him back into my arms tonight. "You have nothing to pout about. You're the one everyone loves. The fans scream loudest for you, there's nothing you can't have. And still you lie here like a child, pouting and crying yourself to sleep. What the fuck's your problem now?"

I sigh. "Lance, please," I manage to say before the tears sting my eyes and clog my words. I know the fans love me, but that's not what I want to hear. I want to hear that _he_ loves me. I want him to tell me without the alcohol in his system, without his dick softening along my thigh. I want him to love me the way he does when we're not on tour, when it's just him and me and the rest of the world disappears.

"Grow up, Justin," he tells me, and I turn away from him. I want him to hold me, but I'm not going to beg. He's drunk. In the morning, he won't remember the sex or the fight, and he'll tell me he loves me.

And in the morning, I'll believe him.

_ Not with a bang but a whimper. _


End file.
